


it's the renaissance of these days

by samarskite



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banging in all of its meanings, But it's only mentioned and hinted at, Enjolras Is Bad At Communicating, Enjolras has exams, Fluff and Humor, Grantaire is promiscuous, Implied Sexual Content, Legally Blonde References, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Neighbors, Strangers to Lovers, Vast use of the word fucking, thin walls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 14:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18573853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarskite/pseuds/samarskite
Summary: A tale in four months in which Enjolras' neighbour has a very intense sexual life and they, unfortunately, share a wall.





	it's the renaissance of these days

 

_March_

 

**S** omeone’s been fucking in the apartment right next to his for a while now, and Enjolras is starting to lose his patience. Especially since this situation has been happening every two or three days, for three or four months by now.

It’s not like he’s against the concept of fucking in general, despite his friends being convinced otherwise — on the contrary, he quite enjoys the activity itself, if performed with someone who’s attractive and interesting — but he’s writing the worst essay in the history of college, and he’d like to focus.

He glimpses grumpily at the sky outside through his window, as if the whole world were responsible for the obscene acts that are privately taking place in the room right next to his (room that unfortunately belongs to someone who’s not him, nor his roommates).

Enjolras closes his eyes and counts to ten, like Combeferre taught him; he gets as far as eight, but then some girl moans “ _Oh, yes_ ” extremely loudly and he caves, punching repeatedly the wall with the side of his fist. “Could _this please_ get to an end?”, he shouts. The squeaking and the moaning abruptly stop.

A few heartbeats, then a guy shouts: “Do you want to join in?” from the other side of the wall.

Enjolras feels his face scrunch up in a mix of confusion and surprise: “I don’t want to _join in_ , I don’t even know what you look like”. Then he realises that _it’s not the point_ , so he angrily adds: “And I’m trying to study”.

Another few heartbeats. Then: “Well, that’s a shame”, the male voice says, and then the squeaking and the moaning restart with renewed intensity.

Staring blankly at his laptop, his train of thought completely lost and his ears thumping with sounds that, honestly, should be heard only by the parties involved in the act, Enjolras realises that 1, he’s hasn’t met his new neighbour yet, and 2, it’s been three years since the last time he’s seen someone naked.

Neither of these things have bothered him so far, but the sudden realisation leaves him unhappy. As the girl peaks, with a noise that advertises the guy’s sex-skills quite flatteringly, Enjolras tells himself that he’ll make it through exams season, and then he’ll take care of both. Not simultaneously, obviously, but he will. He’ll meet his neighbour, because he’s polite and they may even be civil, and he’ll find a way to get laid that doesn’t involve strangers, fuck buddies or prostitution.

He gets back to his essay.

 

***

 

“Can’t you just print the fucking flyers — oh, sorry, my bad”, Enjolras apologises, having bumped into a guy with dark hair and a ratty jumper on his way to retrieve the mail downstairs.

The guy, who’s wearing shades and a sleep-deprived attitude, smiles. Enjolras gets lost for a moment in his features, noticing he has mail on his hands himself, Combeferre insistently asking if he’s okay on the phone. How come he’s never met this guy, if he lives in the building?

They brush past each other, and the guy jogs upstairs.

“Enjolras? Are you still there?”, Combeferre asks again.

“Yeah, sorry. We were saying?”

 

 

_April_

 

**A** month later, “I — huh”, is the first thing Enjolras says when the door next to his opens to reveal a boy wearing only an XXL jumper and striped briefs.

The guy is taller than him of a few inches (Enjolras’ forehead gets only a little above his nose); he clearly hasn’t shaven in weeks, and his black, curly hair is sticking out in every possible direction known by a three-dimensional space. The jumper he’s wearing has a horrible, nineties-ish pattern that is impossible to describe in human words, his face is still groggy from sleep, and he has the most perfect nose Enjolras has ever seen. It’s so straight and perfectly sculpted that angels with a ruler would’ve done a worse job. A freshly-rolled cigarette is hanging from his lips.

Furthermore, it’s the mail guy.

“Hello”, the guy says, the faintest note of a question mark at the end of his greeting.

Enjolras has rehearsed what he wanted to say many times, but the guy is looking at him with his goddamned, still half-lidded, impossibly green eyes, and his mind is momentarily calling quits at the moment, so what he manages to get out is: “I, uhm, live nearby?”

“Oh”, the guy’s eyes lit up in understanding. “Are you Enj-something, Courf or Ferre?”

What Enjolras wants to answer is “ _Do you fucking eavesdrop?_ ”, but what he actually answers is “Enj-something”. Then, after a bit, he realises and amends: “I mean, Enjolras. My actual name is Enjolras”.

The guy grins, and “So you’re the angry one”, he states. His eyes are quite small for the size of his face, and his mouth is quite large, with very full lips. His face as a total shouldn’t be half as attractive as he actually is to Enjolras. Noticing Enjolras’ expression but clearly mistaking it for something else, the guy apologetically adds: “I’m sorry, it’s just that the walls are very thin and you’re very loud”.

Enjolras bites his lower lip. “You are too, apparently”.

A blush seems to crawl the guy’s throat up to his cheeks, but it disappears as soon as he grins again: “About that —”

“I’m not here to complain”, Enjolras snappily amends, realising once again that his words, or lack of thereof, are not matching his intentions. “Well. It _is_ sort of distracting when you’re trying to study laws in Latin, but I’m here because I realised that we had never met before and, since we’re neighbours, it would’ve been nice of me to, uhm, introduce myself”.

“Oh. Well, that _was_ nice of you”, the guy half smiles, and for a split second he does look genuine. “I’m Grantaire, by the way”. They shake hands. “I’m hosting a party tonight, do you and your roommates want to come?”

Enjolras hesitates. Parties make him antsy and snappy, because there’s usually too many people in too little space and, they do what? Dance? Make small talk? Get drunk?

On the other hand, he has just met Grantaire and refusing would be quite rude; not to mention, he does deserve some reward for being alive after exams season, a reward that doesn’t consist in new manuals to study.

“I’m not a party-guy, but why not? I’ll ask them”, he ends up saying, and Grantaire grins again: “Awesome. It starts at nine, I’ll see you here”; then, he shuts the door.

Enjolras blinks at it. Nothing in the conversation that just happened has went as expected.

 

***

 

On the contrary, as expected, at the party there’s a lot of people in the very little space that is Grantaire’s living room. Everything is either dark or fluorescent, people are chatting and the stereo is playing Panic at the Disco’s _Say Amen (Saturday Night)._

Enjolras fidgets with the edge of his favourite t-shirt, unsure about what one’s exactly supposed to do at parties.

At high school, he has always been the designated driver, because he was the first to take the driving license (being born in January and all) and because, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t figure out why people enjoy being drunk. He gave it a try, once, and he ended up kissing people he didn’t know and throwing up in a bathroom, tripping on his feet constantly and being unable to communicate his need for a glass of water to his friends.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac leave his side as soon as they step in Grantaire’s apartment, on a quest to fetch drinks, and Enjolras finds himself scanning the room for people he might vaguely know from one of his classes. Instead, he spots the host, casually laying against a doorframe, nursing a beer and scanning the room as if he wanted to make sure that everyone is having fun. He debates for a solid minute whether he should wait for his friends or go talk to Grantaire; he doesn’t need an introspective session with his reflection in the bathroom to admit to himself that Grantaire interests and fascinates him, and in the end he chooses to test his luck, walking over.

The boy’s eyes lit up as soon as he sees Enjolras approach: “Hey, you came! Are your friends here as well?”

Enjolras nods, and points at a vague direction behind his shoulders; Grantaire gifts him with one of his clearly characteristic grins, all toothy and fluorescent in the ultraviolet light that fills the room: “So, if you don’t like parties, what does a hot, blonde, opinionated guy like you enjoy doing for fun?”

Enjolras ignores the butterfly effect that being called “hot” has done to his guts, rests his back against the wall next to Grantaire’s doorframe, and meditates. “If i don’t have to study, I usually read, or watch something on Netflix. I write speeches. Sometimes I go out with my friends, but we like to keep it quiet”.

He expects Grantaire to scoff and make fun of his boringness, but the boy hums understandingly: “What do you study?”

“Law”, Enjolras tries to answer, but the music abruptly gets higher, and his words get lost. Grantaire scrunches up his nose, and gestures with his head to follow him, heading towards his apartment’s balcony. Outside it’s quieter, and the air is still chilly despite it being one of the last nights of April.

Grantaire leans against the railing and produces a cigarette out of his pockets. “You were saying?”, he prompts.

“Law”, Enjolras repeats. “What about you?”

“Arts”, Grantaire vaguely responds, puffing out a tiny cloud of smoke. “Want a drag?”, he offers then.

It shouldn’t be attractive, watching a guy he’s met a few hours before offer a cigarette with one hand while holding a beer in the other. The way his hair is still sticking out everywhere shouldn’t be attractive, as well as his half unbuttoned black shirt, or the ring around his thumb, or the smudged eyeliner around his eyes. Enjolras doesn’t do easy-going, libertine, damned-looking guys. He aims for accountability.

Enjolras accepts it. “What kind of arts?”, he asks.

Grantaire shrugs. “Cinema, mostly”; he shoots a calculating glance. “What’s your favourite movie?”

The honest answer is _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Enjolras takes a drag. “ _Legally blonde_ ”, he says.

Grantaire barks out a surprised laugh as he takes back the cigarette: “Good choice. Do you have, like... a she-Warner in your life, or something?”

Enjolras blows out the smoke. The butterfly effect of being called “hot” earlier was nothing compared to the thrill down his spine that Grantaire’s question has sparked. He’s asking if he’s straight — is Grantaire hitting on him?

“I don’t”, he answers. “But if I did, it would be a Warner, period”.

Something related to joy floods Grantaire’s eyes, as he grins again. “That’s good”, he says, killing the cigarette and exhaling his last puff of smoke. “We don’t want complete boneheads in our lives”. He pushes himself away from the railing, chugs the last sip of his beer and offers Enjolras his free hand: “Dance with me, neighbour?”

Enjolras doesn’t really dance. “I’m crap at it”.

“I won’t call you for a _Dancing with the Stars_ casting, then”.

“I’m not even a star”, Enjolras objects.

“Aren’t you, though?”, Grantaire says, laughing, his hand still offering to be taken.

Maybe it’s the party, maybe it’s this strange, giddy feeling in his chest, maybe it’s the thrill of being hit on, _probably_ it’s the nicotine, since he hasn’t smoked in months — but Enjolras honest-to-fucking-God blushes and takes Grantaire’s hand.

They get back inside, and Grantaire manoeuvres him towards the centre of his living room, where people are already dancing (Enjolras thinks he can spot Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but it’s too dark to be sure).

Enjolras doesn’t know the generic, party-ish song that’s playing now, and that’s saying how “ _it's a fact, dear, I'm an act here, no camera, no stage, dressed to impress so I can lie about my age_ ”, and knows even less about the moves one’s supposed to make to look vaguely seductive.

Grantaire doesn’t give him time to freak out about it, though; he gently drags the hands they’re still holding over his right shoulder, pulling Enjolras slightly but undoubtedly closer, and starts dancing casually to the rhythm of the song. Enjolras tries to mirror his movements without making a fool of himself.

“You’re trying to be cool”, Grantaire tells him with a smile, leaning towards Enjolras’ right ear to make sure he can be heard. “It’s more fun if you let go”, then adds, the ghost of his free hand touching Enjolras’s right hip, not dubious, but respectful and ready to retreat in case it’s unwelcome.

It’s not unwelcome — on the contrary; Enjolras shifts closer. Grantaire is still leaning towards his ear, and a slight turning of both their heads could easily do the trick. Enjolras feels anticipation build up in his guts; he feels his breath tickle Grantaire’s neck as much as Grantaire’s tickling his; he feels the impulse to kiss him; he feels his body tensing up and finally slotting into place with the music’s rhythm; he feels Grantaire’s grip getting more firm on his hip, pulling him in; moreover, he feels he’s getting hard, when —

when he’s suddenly reminded of how he’s become aware of Grantaire’s existence in the first place. He’s the one that’s fucking someone every two days. The one _obnoxiously_ fucking someone every two days. Presumably someone different every time, if the syncopated alternation of male and female voices are to be taken into account.

The feeling of being the last ring of a very long chain hits Enjolras like a slap, as he quickly pulls away from Grantaire. The confused look on his face is almost unbearable, but Enjolras turns away nonetheless and starts swimming in the sea of dancing people in the desperate quest of getting to the door of Grantaire’s apartment.

“What’s wrong?”, he hears him ask repeatedly, as he follows Enjolras through the crowd.

“I don’t even know you”, Enjolras snaps after the sixth of seventh time, stopping abruptly to turn towards him. “And I’m not — I’m not that kind of guy. I’m sorry. I — don’t do this kind of stuff”.

Grantaire looks more baffled than he has any right to be, honestly. “What kind of stuff?”

Enjolras hysterically waves his hands: “Kiss strangers, fuck around?, I don’t do it, I can’t do it, unlike —”

The hurt on Grantaire’s face hits him even harder than the feeling of being a faceless hookup: “Unlike me?”, Grantaire supplies, incredulous, and bitter, and incredibly sad. More sad than it makes sense for him to be. “You know what, Enjolras?, you’re right, you don’t know me. Which is why you should fuck off”, Grantaire tells him.

“I wasn’t judging—”

“No, you were. You most certainly were”, Grantaire cuts him off, then turns around and disappears into the crowd.

A few people bump into Enjolras as he stays still among them, frozen, an uneasy churn at the base of his stomach making him sick.

Very rarely Enjolras has walked away from a situation knowing, without a shadow of doubt, that he has fucked up big time.

This, though, is the case.

He doesn’t like the feeling at all.

 

  

_May_

 

**I** t only gets worse from there. The frequency of the banging, and the swearing, and the moaning (dear _God_ , the moaning) increases, to the point it sometimes happens twice a day. It goes from guttural to high-pitched, from female to male, from two-people-moaning to... three?, four-people-moaning? To make matters even worse, exams are approaching again, and Enjolras’ room is the one that shares the wall with the one in which the magic happens. It doesn’t only make studying hard, but sleeping too, because the noise doesn’t have a specific, designated time of the day. Enjolras can be woken up at seven am by a “ _Oooooh, your tongue_ ”, or disturbed at four pm by a “ _Please don’t stop_ ”, and there’s no way of telling when it’s happening (and, trust him, boy, has he tried).

He punches the wall several times, and gets as far as Grantaire’s door twice — fist in the air, ready to knock — but whilst he has mild anger management issues, even he can tell that he’s the cause of his own problems.

“He has finally met his match”, he hears Courfeyrac fake-whisper in awe to Combeferre every time the noises start and he finds himself pulling compulsively at the rubber band around his wrist. “The neighbour is twice as petty as he is, this is amazing”.

“This is not amazing, this is a problem”, Enjolras snaps once, caffeinated, sat on the living room floor surrounded by books, sleep deprived and worn out by two hours of vocal demonstration on how to find the G spot, courtesy of Grantaire.

“Can I ask what did you do? Because it’s obviously personal, we don’t have problems when you’re not around”, Combeferre interjects, not unkindly, sitting on the floor in front of him.

It’s almost time for dinner, and the sky is darkening outside. Enjolras has dirty hair, a pyjamas he’s been wearing for two weeks and an empty stomach that hasn’t been hungry in days.

Enjolras blinks: “You don’t?”

“No”, Courfeyrac smiles, shaking his head. “Do you remember the weekend you went to see your parents? Not a single soul was deflowered”.

Enjolras blinks again. “Motherfucker”.

“That’s likely”, Courfeyrac giggles, but stops as soon as Enjolras and Combeferre simultaneously glare at him.

“I mean... I might have been judgemental about his sexual habits, a month ago or so”, Enjolras says, feeling like he’s confessing a murder. This time, Courfeyrac straight-up laughs, and is joined by Combeferre, too.

“It’s not funny!”, Enjolras protests weakly.

“It kinda is, though”, Combeferre says, taking off his glasses because he has tears in his eyes. “Listen, have you ever thought of apologising?”

Enjolras has. But the thought of walking over to Grantaire, admitting he was stupidly quick to judge the way he lives his life, makes him feel nauseous. On the other hand, he stands by the fact that he’s not eager to be fucked and treated like a piece of meat.

“Enjolras, look at me”, Courfeyrac says, as he crouches in front of him. His voice, uncharacteristically serious, earns Enjolras’ full attention and snaps him out of his thoughts. “We both know that it didn’t end well the last time you slept with someone before you knew their number, deepest fears and blood type, but there’s all sorts of guys, right? Not everyone’s an asshole amd Leaves you drunk in a bathroom stall. And I’ve talked with Grantaire, he looks like a genuinely good guy”.

“I never said —”

“I _know_ you never said you wanted to sleep with him, but I saw you two at the party and I know _you_. I’ve seen you apologise to people for bigger mistakes than this, you simply didn’t give a shit about their opinion. Just admit you care about what Grantaire thinks of you and that you‘d like to know him better. There’s nothing wrong with it”. Courfeyrac smiles kindly. “There’s another party at his on Saturday night, you should come and talk to him”.

Enjolras knows he’s right, but he probably won’t. “I’ll think about it”, he says, then gets back to the books scattered around him.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac leave it at that.

 

***

 

It’s too early for Combeferre’s night shift to be over, and Courfeyrac has keys to the apartment. That’s why Enjolras freezes when someone knocks on his door at midnight on Saturday night, and takes a few moments more than usual to go open it.

“Wha —”, he starts asking, but Grantaire quickly brushes past him, holding firmly a slumpy Courfeyrac plastered by his side. He heads for the couch, making him sit down with all the care he looks capable of.

“The penglings are coming over to fuck shit up in a rush”, Courfeyrac slurs with a dopey smile, as Grantaire piles two pillows and manoeuvres him to lay his head down.

“He’s drunk”, Grantaire states with an amused smile, straightening up and patting his own tights.

“I’m fucking fablubous bubbly baby”, Courfeyrac retorts, snuggling the pillows. Grantaire bites down a laugh: “I’m sorry I burst in, but he’s surprisingly heavy for a skinny stick like him”.

Enjolras shakes his head: “No, yeah, no, uhm, don’t apologise, thank you for bringing him back. Combeferre is usually the one who keeps an eye on him, but he’s working late hours tonight and... uhm”, he trails off, not knowing what to say next. He eyes Courfeyrac, already softly snoring on the couch; the sound of the party next door is pulsing but dull, as there's Courfeyrac's bedroom between them and Grantaire's living room. “In fact”, Enjolras adds as an afterthought, not even knowing what he’s going to say next, “I should be the one apologising. For what I said to you, at the other party. How you live your life is not my business, and my past experiences shouldn’t influence my opinion on new people. I was being mean and judgemental, and —”, and then he trails off again. He hoped Grantaire would interrupt him and tell him that there was no need to apologise, or something of sort, but Grantaire is simply staring at him, silent and still a bit amused.

When Grantaire seems to realise that Enjolras doesn’t know what to say next, he nods: “Okay. Apology accepted”. He stalls a few seconds, as if he were waiting for Enjolras to say something else, but then he shrugs, says “I’m going to go now”, and starts walking towards the door.

Enjolras feels he‘s missing something, because Grantaire is leaving, and with him any hope for future interactions between them — and that is not an appreciated outcome.

He can’t say that things are not going according to his plans, because he didn’t have a plan, but they’re certainly not going according to his _desires_ , and he doesn’t know how to act. Enjolras wants to make sure they’re going to talk again. He wants to talk to Grantaire again so bad, it’s insane.

What to say, what to say? Why is Combeferre never there when he needs a translation from Enjolras language to human words?

Courfeyrac snores louder and Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s wrist, letting out a panicked: “No, wait”, once again unaware of where he is going with this. Thankfully, though, Grantaire stops and stares, waiting for him to say something.

“I —”, Enjolras tries, tormenting his hands. “I regret leaving before we could finish our dance”.

Grantaire bites his lower lip, looking entertained, but not unkindly. “You do?”

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire stares at the ceiling and huffs, a meditating look on his face, then turns to face Enjolras, not pulling away from his grip on his wrist. “Okay, so... let’s see”. Grantaire grins, and looks at him in the eyes. “I study cinema because when I was little my mom brought me to the movies every Saturday. I’ve had three girlfriends and two boyfriends. I work shifts at a bar, and since all of my friends have roommates I let them use my apartment when they want to bang in peace and I’m not there. I’m scared of the dark, I’m scared of hospitals. I used to drink a lot, and I’m scared that if shit gets hard I’m going to start again. I starved for years to afford a nose job because I hated my nose, it was all crooked and ugly. I’ve boxed since I was twelve because I used to be chubby during my primary school years. I threw a napkin at Marie Le Pen once. I — why are you staring at me like this? You said you don’t know me and you don’t kiss people you don’t know, which, fair enough, sometimes I do, but no judgement. I’m telling you stuff about myself”. He clicks his tongue again. “Now, hush, let me finish. I‘d like to become a director, my favourite book is _Memoirs of Hadrian_ because I cried like a baby the first time I read it, it took me years to get my driving license, I haven’t slept with someone since March and —” then he leans towards Enjolras’ ear, mirroring the motion of a month before, and whispers, “I’ve recently been arguing passive-aggressively with my insanely hot, blonde neighbour. See, I’ve invited all of my friends to fuck in my apartment every time they wanted to, just to piss him off. Which goes to show how petty I can be when I’m attracted by someone who has rejected me”.

“Mmh?”, is the only sound that Enjolras is able to let out, since the proximity of Grantaire and his hot breath against Enjolras’ skin can incapacitate his power of speech, apparently. “Rejected you? What a bonehead”.

Grantaire plants a soft kiss on the portion of skin between Enjolras’ neck and his earlobe; Enjolras exhales, his hand leaving Grantaire’s wrist to sink in his hair. He blindly turns his head in the general direction of Grantaire’s mouth, already parting his lips —

and Courfeyrac chooses that exact moment to whine “Enjolras? I think I need to puke”.

Grantaire chuckles and closes his eyes. “This is unbelievable”, he mutters, as Enjolras regrettably steps away from him and hurries to make sure Courfeyrac doesn’t vomit on the carpet.

The night ends with Courfeyrac half dead puking in the toilet, as Enjolras holds back his hair staring helplessy at Grantaire, who's leaning against the bathroom's doorframe.

Enjolras can’t help but feel disappointed about how the evening turned out; but as they’re dragging his best friend to bed, Courfeyrac mumbles something like “Flying croissants, damned nazis”, and Enjolras has a revelation.

Grantaire leaves around one in the morning, to hush away his guests, and doesn’t come back. But Enjolras’ content, because now he has a plan.

 

 

_ June _

 

**T** he following morning Enjolras gets up relatively early, takes a shower, gets dressed and walks to the closest bar. Then, with two coffees and two croissants in his hands, he knocks on Grantaire’s door.

When it opens, Enjolras feels thrown into a deja-vu, but with hotter weather: ugly t-shirt, boxers decorated with tiny chickens, messy hair and cigarette hanging from his lips, waiting to be lightened up.

He shows Grantaire the coffee and the paper bag with croissants: “I think we should try a different approach”.

Grantaire frowns and smiles, and lets him in.

“Also”, Enjolras adds, as the boy closes the door, “I know you said you don’t mind kissing strangers sometimes, but it feels unfair that I know stuff about you and you don’t know anything about me”.

Grantaire grabs one coffee and sits on the couch, surrounded by empty plastic glasses, paper confetti and other kinds of trash from the party. “I’m listening”, Grantaire grins, taking a sip and inviting Enjolras to sit right next to him. He does.

This time, he has thought about what to say. He’s not good at improv. “In high school, I got suspended because I broke someone’s nose. It was self-defense, but it did turn out that I have some issues with anger management. I don’t, like, punch people gratuitously, I just get very flustered very quickly and when it happens I can’t think straight. I say hurtful things. Sometimes, when I’m very angry, I deliberately say things I know are going to sting, even if I don’t think them”.

He pauses, and takes a sip of coffee. Grantaire is listening attentively, and this gives him courage to go on. “My parents got divorced and then got together again, and our conversations aren’t always nice. They say a lot of things I don’t agree with. I’ve had one girlfriend, in elementary school, and two boyfriends. When I broke up with the second one, Courfeyrac brought me to a party to feel better. I drank a lot — like, a _lot_ — and I ended up in a bathroom stall with this guy I had never met before. I remember going in with him but I don’t remember what happened. I woke up alone in that bathroom stall, hours later, with my trousers undone, though, so I can take a guess”. Grantaire scrunches up his nose in sympathy, but doesn’t say anything. Enjolras keeps going: “My actual favourite movie is _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , which is also my favourite book and it’s the reason why I’m studying Law. I’m scared of heights and I sleep with my socks on because I get cold at night. I don’t think I would be able to live on my own, I can’t take care of myself. I eat my nails when I’m nervous and I’m so bad at meeting new people that I haven’t slept with someone in three years”.

He takes another sip of coffee, to enjoy the look of disbelief on Grantaire’s face: “Three years?”

“Yes. But that’s fine, see, because I’ve recently met this guy. Annoying as fuck, mind me, but very handsome. I thought he was banging the whole neighbourhood for a while, then it turned out that not only I was being judgemental about it, but I was also horribly wrong. He did nothing to let me know, though, until yesterday”.

Grantaire fake-gasps: “He didn’t? What a bonehead”.

Enjolras nods: “Oh, yes. But he’s very hot, so what are you gonna do? I’m just praying he stops acting petty”.

Grantaire puts his coffee down and smirks, leaning towards him: “Succumbing to his charme looks like the only solution, since you’ve been _bravely_ resisting him. How did you manage, by the way?”.

Enjolras tries to maintain a shred of dignity and clicks his tongue: “What, like it’s hard—?”, he tries to say, but then words die in his throat, because Grantaire has grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and has pulled him in a kiss.

It feels great, kissing someone after three years of nothing. It feels great especially because it’s Grantaire, but Enjolras had missed the little things that make a kiss great — hands under the t-shirts, slowly laying down on the first surface available, hotness creeping up his cheeks, teeth gently biting his lower lip and scraping his neck, little huffs of breath, hands in hair, hands on ass, pulling closer, endorphins.

They end up knocking over one of the coffees and a lot of plastic glasses, so they stop to clean their mess and eat their croissants, but then somehow end up making out again, against the living room's wall.

“Date me”, Grantaire mumbles as he busies himself with Enjolras’ trousers.

“Only if you promise no more fucking during certain hours”, Enjolras says, proud of himself for being able to bargain even with his hot neighbour’s hands down his pants. “It’s been driving me insane”.

“That was the goal”, Grantaire grins, leaving a trail of kisses down Enjolras’ neck. “But I think you’re going to be the disturber this time around, as I share this wall with one of your roommates”. He pulls down Enjolras’ trousers and grins again. “How the tables have turned, uh?”

Shortly after, Courfeyrac begins to bang his fist against the wall swearing he’s happy for them, really, but could they _please fucking stop fucking at his ungodly hour?_

They consider ignoring him but, in the end, they move to the bedroom.

It's not like there's anyone on the other side of the wall anyway.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is becoming a recurring scheme, but I _honestly_ don't know what the hell is this. I liked the idea of Grantaire being obnoxious about his-slash-not-actually-his-because-he-totally-lets-his-friends-use-his-apartment hook ups, and I liked the idea of Enjolras being totally against the concept of sleeping with someone you don't know until meeting him, and this mess came out.
> 
> I'm not actually super proud of how it turned out to be, but I started writing it like three months ago, and then got caught up by a soul-eating exam, much like Enjolras. Now that the soul-eating exam is gone, it felt right to tie this loose end in my phone notes, even though the more I wrote, the more I wasn't convinced by how the story was shaping itself. 
> 
> It was meant to be explicit, but somehow it didn't feel right, especially taking into account Enjolras' past (which is left vague and ambigous on purpose, fill the blanks however you like. Con, non-con? Was he already unconscious when the guy left him in the stall? Your call, depends on how gloomy you're feeling at the moment. I put the tag anyway). 
> 
> I haven't seen _Legally blonde_ , the quotes are courtesy of Sara and Google, I hope they fit. 
> 
> I relate to the modern Enjolras I usually write about more than I'd like to think, albeit I rarely share his history. 
> 
> The song they dance to is [Lean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=2&v=wZQiIi7DggY), by VHS Collection, and it gives this fic its title as well.
> 
> Let me know if you've enjoyed, I'm @blackrowley on Twitter.
> 
> Sam


End file.
